


The Woman by the River

by 95echelon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Blanket Permission, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Work Up For Adoption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 03:08:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11865393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/pseuds/95echelon
Summary: Lily was bright and fierce and unforgettable. Petunia was dull and sharp-edged and lost herself in crowds. Lily was all crimson; all bold, burning power - Lily led armies into war.Petunia smiled, sheathed her bloody daggers, and stepped back into the shadows.Lily joined the Order.Petunia joined MI6.Lily died and left a boy with a scar.Petunia lived and Dumbledore knocked on her door.This is their story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work has not been beta'd. Errors, if any, are my own.  
> This work is discontinued. Only two chapters will ever be uploaded. 
> 
> **Blanket Permission:** Go ahead and translate, make podfic, rework the fic, or do whatever other transformative work you can think of. If the work is hosted on another site, drop me a comment or email and I'll put a link in the story notes!

_Deep in a bunker underground_

_There is a voice that makes no sound_

_Invisible words explode with scorn and_

_Silently stir up the howling storm_

_\- Stateless, 'Ariel'_

 

* * *

**Act 1, Scene 1**

[The room is bitterly cold; the occupants' breaths puff in little clouds. A single fluorescent strip lights the room. They sit across from each other, at a rickety plastic table, held together with liberal amounts of duct tape. They both wear heavy fur coats. The man is heavily bruised - one eye is puffed shut, his nose is broken, his lip is split. Blood dribbles down his mouth as he talks. The woman has a gun pointed at the man.]

 

Dmitri: (in heavy Russian accent) Latabya, you traitor beetch, I cal't teb you lothil' bore!

Natalya: (in faint pan-European drawl) Yes you can. Who eez the buyer?

Dmitri: I dol't lo!!

Natalya: (slowly cocks gun) Try again.

 

[Dmitri gulps and stares at the gun. Above them, the strip-lighting flickers and buzzes loudly.]

 

Natalya: Five. Four. Three... _Two..._

Dmitri: Stob! (sobs) Stob, stob, stob... I vill teb you, you bloody biz'da!

 

[Natalya waits.]

 

Dmitri: Vyadovik. We sold the bissiles to Vyadovik. (begging) Blease, blease, I geev you vat you beed, blease, let be go-

 

[Natalya fires a round into his chest. Blood seeps out of Dmitri's mouth and splashes onto the table, red against dirty white. She fires a second round into his forehead and he slumps down onto the table.]

 

Natalya/Petunia: (shifting into sharp English accent, mutters) Idiot. 

 

[Petunia takes a satphone from an inner coat pocket, and dials. A muffled voice answers on the other end.]

 

Petunia: Hello, ma'am. (smiles) Quite well, thank you. We have the buyer's name. (begins to exit, stage right) Vyadovik, if you can believe it. (pause, laughs) I agree, he is making _quite_ a nuisance of himself. I'll be happy to take care of him as well - 

 

[Exeunt.]

* * *

 

_Now you know her._

_Now you know this woman, who is loyal to Queen and country and nothing else._

 

_See her, see Petunia Evans, see her walk past in the corner of your eye. Her thin face, her dull hair, her beige armor. This woman with her pinched lips and her hidden knives. And do you see it? The blood? All the blood she trails, all the blood she spills in the name of England..._

 

_Childless and friendless and loveless._

_Fearless._

 

_This woman, with her dingy bedsit in Clapham, with eight fake passports and a dossier so classified that few besides the Prime Minister can so much as crack it open._

 

_This is the woman who raised Harry Potter._

_Are you afraid yet?_

_You should be._

* * *

**Act 1, Scene 2**

[A small, sparsely furnished flat. The light from the windows, west, is pale; the sky outside is a steely grey. The hum of an aging radiator fills the room. A small, stuffed armchair is sat beside it. Against the northern wall is a single cot with a thin mattress, and a heap of lumpy blankets. A rickety door with several locks, a wardrobe, a stove and several cabinets occupy the south wall. There are no photographs in the room, nor knick-knacks of any kind. A woman is seated in the armchair, off-center. She is reading a thick, yellowed paperback but the cover has long since broken away from the spine. A cup of steaming tea sits on a table beside her.]

 

[Off-stage, a sharp double-knock on the door.]

 

Petunia: (raised, irritated) No soliciting!

Visitor: (muffled, deep) I am not soliciting, Miss Evans. 

 

[Petunia stiffens. The book drops from her hands.]

 

Petunia: Who- Who is it?

Visitor: (chuckles) Oh, I think you know.

 

[Petunia slaps a palm over her mouth, visibly shakes in her chair. She slips her hand between the chair arm and cushion, and draws a small loaded Beretta. She turns off the safety and breathes deeply several times, before walking stage right.]

 

Petunia: (from behind the door, gun held up, dead center) Identify yourself!

Visitor: You sent me a letter once, when you were very young. I wish I could've answered it better. 

 

[Petunia sighs, tucks her gun away into her dressing gown pocket and opens the door.]

 

Petunia: _(severely)_  You should not be here. 

Visitor: You are a difficult woman to get ahold of, madam.

Petunia: Is it true?

Visitor: May I come in?

Petunia: I- Yes. Fine. ( _urgently_ )  _Is You-Know-Who gone?_

 

[Dumbledore enters, stage right.]

 

Dumbledore: It is true. Lord Voldemort is gone. _(revealing a small, squirming bundle in his arms)_ My dear, I am so, so sorry.

Petunia: _(ignoring the child)_ Is he gone for good?

Dumbledore: _(smiles)_  I must've been to at least eight dinner parties, just tonight. And, do you know, no one has asked me that question until right now. But I suppose the truth isn't for everyone...

Petunia: _Well?!_

Dumbledore: No. The Dark Lord, I believe, isn't vanquished for good. 

Petunia: Hmph. _(muttering)_ Of course he isn't, persistent son of a-

Dumbledore: _(presenting the baby)_ Have you met?

Petunia: What? _(frowning down)_ No, of course not. Who is- No. _No._

Dumbledore: I'm afraid so.

Petunia: _(choked)_ Is _that_ why- Is that why you're sorry? She's _dead?!_

Dumbledore: She died to save her _son_ , Miss Evans. Your _nephew._ Surely you understand that.

Petunia: _(whispering)_ And you've brought him here- To do what? Hand him over?

Dumbledore: Aye.

Petunia: I can't. I _cannot,_ Dumbledore. I cannot care for a child. Surely there are others- _She_ must've have had _(spitting the word)_ _friends._

Dumbledore: It must be you.

Petunia: _(hysterically) Why?!_

Dumbledore: There is ancient magic at work here, Miss Evans. Forces beyond even my comprehension. But Harry will only be safe under the security of blood.

Petunia: This is - This is **_madness._** I _cannot-_

Dumbledore: _You must._

Petunia: Have you finally _cracked,_ you daft _**windbag?!** (gesticulating wildly)_ I cannot! My job flings me across the globe every other day. How am I supposed to care for a _baby?!_

Dumbledore: Ah, Miss Evans, but you forget- He is no ordinary child. They are going write about him in history books, you know. They are going to remember his name. _(absently stroking the baby's scar)_ The boy who defied Death. I think you'll find caring for him quite manageable. 

 

[Spot on Dumbledore, blue. Flickering.]

 

Petunia: _(shakily)_ And if I don't? If I chuck the boy off at the nearest orphanage?

Dumbledore: _(voice echoing, resonating through room)_ Beware, Miss Evans. The walls have eyes.

 

[Lights off, briefly. Lights turn back on.]

 

[Dumbledore has disappeared. Harry is sitting on the bed.]

 

Harry: _Baa! (giggles)_

* * *

 

_In 1985, the world shook._

 

_Gorbachev rose to power in Soviet Russia, and shook hands with Reagan. The AIDS epidemic in the US had reached it's greatest height. Scientists discovered massive ozone depletion above Antarctica and in an unprecedented call to action, gathered the leaders of the world and wrote the Vienna Convention._

 

_And quietly, a survey was conducted of MI6's headquarters, then at Century House. It pronounced the building, "irredeemably insecure."_

 

_A new property was purchased by the British government, an ostentatious structure on the South Bank of the Thames, and refurbished at the astronomical cost of £90 million of taxpayer monies. A gleaming ziggurat of chrome and glass, reflecting the slate river and leaded sky, Ceausescu Towers was grandiose and overwrought and terribly un-secretive._

 

_But they simply called it Riverhouse._

 

* * *

 

_And at this moment, in one of its quiet, dimly-lit rooms, there is a meeting amongst shadows._

 

* * *

 

**Act 1, Scene 3**

 

[Scene: The room is lit by widely-spaced overhead lamps, casting pools of bright fluorescence onto the conference table below. Around it, in various states of agitation, are three women. The air is thick with cigarette smoke; official-looking documents and unsealed manila envelopes litter the table.]

 

_A good spy compartmentalizes. A little box in your head for home, a box for family, a padlocked box for work. A box under a loose floorboard with €4,000 and a fake passport. A compartment for every secret. And these women are very, very good at their jobs._

 

They are, in order of seniority, the leader -  _Designation:Arthur,_ the intelligence asset - _Designation:Lamorak,_ and Miss Evans, the assassin. She is, naturally, _Designation:Lancelot._

 

None of them know the others' real names. 

 

Lancelot sits at the head of the table, with a pinched expression on her face. She takes a long, final sip of her coffee and tosses the styrofoam cup into a distant trashcan behind her. It goes in perfectly.

 

Arthur sighs deeply. "You cannot leave, Lancelot," she says, as if repeating a statement she has made several times before, her voice deep and rough and crackling, like a sergeant broadcasting over a bad radio channel. "You cannot leave. Not now." 

"Look," Lancelot begins, her frustration barely leashed, "You think I _want_ to leave? If I had any choice in the matter... There is a power vacuum in Wizarding Britain. With the Dark Lord gone, the Death Eaters will be scrambling to... I don't know. Get their last few kills in. Get out of the country." She sighs gustily, and wishes the nearest coffeeshop could Apparate into the meeting room. "Keep an eye out, Lamorak."

 

"Aye, miss," Lamorak agrees, her expression tired and sympathetic. "I'm already on it."

 

Petunia smiles back wanly. "I think that's all my affairs in order. It's been an honor, Arthur." She rises from her chair, spine creaking in loud protest.

 

"Sit down," Arthur barks, eyes steely now, fingers rapidly drumming on the table.

Petunia goes still, preternaturally so, fight-or-flight instincts kicking in high gear. 

"I don't think you understand," Arthur says, silky menace lacing every syllable. "You don't retire from the Round Table, my dear. You work for us once, you're ours for good." She pauses, and Petunia barely breathes, shock keeping her quiet, still, like a wild thing stalking its kill. Lamorak seizes in quiet horror, clenching her fist so hard, blood pools beneath her fingernails. 

Arthur smiles, her eyes like a shark, cold, all-seeing.

 

"Now sit down, Lancelot. You have a new job to do."


	2. step into my lair

_close this wound  
_ _alight my bones  
_ _fall back in  
_ _hide your sin_  

_I'm going away for a long time  
_ _I'm going away for a long time_

_\- Mt. Wolf, 'Red'_

* * *

**Act 1, Scene 4**

**September 1, 1991  
** **King's Cross Station  
** **London, UK**

"Be good, Harry," Aunt Petunia says softly, a bony hand clasped at his shoulder, while they both watch the occasional student walk into the brick column between platforms Nine and Ten. They are a safe distance away, and Harry's trolley, loaded with plain, black trunks, draws little attention. The clock above them reads 8:30.

"I will, Auntie," Harry replies. His little face is still like his aunt's, wiped clear of emotion, and the expression of solemnity looks out of place on a boy so young.

"Alright then," she says, brisk once more, patting his head gently. "You know what to do."

"Yes," Harry agrees. He looks up at her, allowing himself a last glance. She smiles a quiet, secretive smile at him and he grins back, just a little shy. 

"Remember your lessons," she says, the hubbub of King's Cross nearly drowning out her words. Harry reads her lips as she says, "Write to me often."

"I promise. Will I see you at Christmas?"

"Maybe, Harry. It depends."

"On whether the informant you planted in Ukraine comes through?"

Her eyes soften momentarily with pride. "Very good, Harry. That's correct."

"Okay, well. If that's the problem, you ought to know - he has a daughter living in Cotswold. She's his most effective pressure point."

She raises an eyebrow. "And why you didn't tell me about this girl before?"

Harry shrugs, looking away, guilt stamped across his features. "She's nice. Don't hurt her?"

Petunia is an unremarkable woman, and it is one of her greatest strengths. Her nose is small, her lips thin, her eyes slightly too close set. Her cheekbones poke out like gaunt twin peaks and her chin crests like a witch from 1559.

When she frowns, however, her face undergoes a great and terrible transformation. Her eyes bulge, and her teeth draw back in a feral twist, revealing a snarl of a hungry beast. She frowns now, but her face is hidden in shadow, and only young Harry is privy to its horror. "Have you _contacted_ this woman?" she asks, her voice tight with rage. "Without obtaining my _permission_?!"

But Harry plows on, accusatory, anger bubbling like magma. "You're gonna hurt her, aren't you?"

Petunia hunches over, glaring. "Did. You. _Contact_. Her."

"This is why!" he whisper-yells, stamping a foot. "This is why I don't tell you things! Are you gonna kill this one too?!"

"You disrespectful brat! How dare you?"

"Fine," he says, abruptly turning quiet. Dangerous, for all that he is just eleven. "Cancel Christmas. You think I _care?"_ he hisses, sulfur burning in his veins. Above them, lightbulbs fuse out and shatter in miniature explosions. _"_ Kill her, _Lancelot_ ," he growls scornfully, eyes flashing like death, as commuters scream and duck the splintering glass. "Kill them all! _"_

 

He grabs ahold of his trolley, powering his way through the crowd, nearly at a run. He throws himself through the brick wall. He only stops when he's through.

God, but sometimes he _hates_ her.

* * *

 

**Act 1, Scene 5**

[A train compartment. Through the window at the back, endless meadows and fields roll by. A young boy sits by himself, in a dark shirt and pressed trousers. He is slim, athletic-looking and deeply tanned. He wears round glasses low on his nose, and has a copy of _How Buffy Bogarted the Blast-Beaded Belladonne and Other Biographies by Boodle the Benighted Bard_  open on his lap. Occasionally he pops a jelly bean into his mouth from an open packet beside him. However, many of them seem to taste awful because he frequently spits them out.]

[The door to the compartment clatters open. Three young boys stand at the entrance.]

Harry: _(friendly, affecting a strong cockney drawl)_ Hallo. Can't find an empty compartment, lads?

Intruder #1: I- You- What?

Harry: Train's pretty full up. I don't mind sharing, if you need the space?

Intruder #1: _(snottily) We_ have a compartment. Of course we do.

Harry: Alright... Just offerin', mate. _(returns to book)_

Intruder #1: Is it true, by the way, what they're saying?

Harry: _(without looking away from book)_ Wouldn't know, guv. What is it they're sayin'?

Intruder #1: That Harry Potter is on the train.

Harry: Mmm. _(turns page)_ And that's a big deal, is it?

Intruder #1: _Obviously._  Don't you know who he is?

Harry: _(smiles)_ Sure. I know him. _(glancing up_ ) Do you?

Intruder #1: I know _of_ him. No one actually _knows_ him. He's been hidden away by Dumbledore for years. Even someone like _you_  ought to know _that._

Harry: Someone 'like me'?

Intruder #1: You're a mud- a _muggleborn_ , clearly. You ought to keep up with the times.

Harry: _(quietly sarcastic)_ Right you are, Master Malfoy. I'll keep that in mind.

Malfoy: Good, you ough- Hold on! How do you know my name?

Harry: _(returning to book, murmurs)_ Oh, the hair, the clothes, _(under breath)_ the stick up your arse... _(louder)_ It's not a very difficult deduction.

Intruders #2 and #3: _(chortling)_ 'Stick up...!' _(more chortling)_

Malfoy: _(hissing, aside)_ Shut up! _(frowning, to Harry)_ You know me, but I cannot say the same. You have me at a disadvantage, Mister...?

Harry: _(shifting to clear Etonian vowels)_  Potter. Harry Potter. At your service.

[Malfoy gapes.]

Harry: And while this has been great fun, if you wouldn't mind moving on...?

Malfoy: _(rallying)_ I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot, Potter. Let me assure you, counting a Malfoy amongst your allies will make life Hogwarts much more... pleasant. Shall we say pax?

Harry: _(chuckles)_ Oh, Malfoy... I haven't come to you, you've come to _me._  And quite honestly, I'm not impressed. _(shrugs)_

Malfoy: Oh, you're not? _(sarcastically)_ I'm so terribly sorry, Mr. Hero! Do forgive me!

Harry: _(grins, looks at Malfoy consideringly)_ Maybe I will... Now, _(flicking out wand)_ Repulso!

[Draco and company are bodily flung out of the compartment and into the corridor. There is some mild cursing and a great deal of groaning. Draco unentangles himself from his compatriots. He is quite now red in the face.]

Malfoy: _(flushed, heaving)_ You- You- My father will hear about this!

Harry: _(mildly)_ Well I certainly hope so. Tell Lucius I said I know about the Aubusson in the drawing room, would you? He'll understand what that means. Ta!

[The compartment door bangs shut. Harry goes back to his book.] 

* * *

 

_The sequence of events that follows is already familiar to you, dear Reader._

 

_There is, in this order, a boat of precarious balance, a missing toad, a stern announcement, and the possibility of fighting trolls._

 

_Hogwarts is incandescently lovely, in this universe as it is in every universe, and oh, Reader, even this Harry, with his murderous Aunt and his hidden knives and his shuttered, solemn eyes, even this Harry can't help but look upon this castle and know -_ _know that he is finally,_

_finally_

 

_home._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> This work is discontinued. Let me know what you thought, and as always, thanks for reading!


End file.
